Slipping into chaos
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: She doesn't turn when he shouts her name, she only walks faster into the crowd and seconds later he can't see her anymore. Post episode 2x22 Sona.
1. Chapter 1

She didn't see him, but he saw her. He noticed her slow pace, the way she held her body as if she had been broken and torn apart. He scrutinized her face, her detached, vacant expression as she was led away and passed the room he was being held in to write his confession.

He fought the urge to call her name, and let her walk away from him once more.

Her oddly expressionless face is all he can think of as he writes down everything that did not happen, how she didn't kill a man and wreck the last chance for her to have a normal life ever again.

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She doesn't turn when he shouts her name, she only walks faster into the crowd and seconds later he can't see her anymore. For a moment, he just stands there, mouth agape, incomprehension written over his face.

Then he starts running. He jogs down the crowded street, shoving people out of his way, determined to get to her and to find out what the hell happened to his little brother. All he can do is keep moving and shout her name at the top of his lungs. He looks everywhere, torn between recklessness and exasperation, stares at every woman he passes as he tries to spot her small frame and fair skin.

After an hour of frantic search, he finally spots her in a small alley several blocks away, sitting on the dirty ground, her head in her hands. For a second he thinks she might be hurt, but when she raises her head, he only sees dry tears on her cheeks.

He kneels down in front of her and wraps his arms around her shoulders in a clumsy hug, whispering into her ear that it's going to be okay, trying to silence his impatience.

"Sara. Tell me what happened."

When she speaks, her voice is so low and monotonous he barely recognizes it.

"He said it was him. He pointed a gun to my head and said he did it. He's being charged with murder."

"Did you tell them it was self defence?"

"Of course I told them it was self defence, what do you think?" she barks. "I told them it was me and he had nothing to do with it. I asked them to look for my fingerprints on the gun. They laughed in my face and said they didn't need fingerprints when they had a murderer in custody ready to write a confession. They didn't listen to a fucking word I said."

"I'll go and tell them I shot the guy."

"What makes you think they'll listen to you?

"You don't look like a killer. They must have thought you were trying to protect your boyfriend and…"

"And they'll think you're trying to protect your brother. It's useless. He's not fighting, he won't defend himself. I think he's just… resigned."

Lincoln sighs loudly and mumbles to himself, "This self-sacrificing bullshit is getting old."

"Oh, you think?"

"Okay. Okay, we're gonna figure this mess out, alright? But we need to keep moving. We can't stay here."

"What?"

"If that creep found us, there has to be others coming."

"And where do we suggest we should go?"

"I don't know. We'll figure it out."

His words are a bitter reminder of Michael's, of a time when they still had a goal, when they knew what they were fighting against. Sara remains silent for a minute, then raises her head to meet his eyes again as she slowly says, "I am not going with you."

"What? Are you insane? I'm not leaving you on your own."

"The hell you're not. I'm not giving you the choice."

"If I left you here, my brother would never forgive me."

"Your brother is gone." She gets to her feet before adding, "He didn't flinch, you know, when it happened. He said it was a way to say thank you for what I've done. Like it's some stupid karmic payback. He didn't think twice."

"Sounds like Michael."

"Yeah." She brushes the dirt off her tired jeans and looks up into the blinding sun. "Just…leave me be, okay? I've had enough. I've had more than enough. There's nothing I can do for either of you. I don't have the energy to keep up anymore."

"You can't give up now, we're almost there!"

"No. We were almost there before Michael was arrested for the murder _I_ committed. Every step we take, we're going in deeper. I'm done trying. I quit." She turns her back to him before saying emotionlessly, "Goodbye, Lincoln."

He watches her walk away, too stunned to react, and stands there for a long time, wondering how the hell did they drive themselves into chaos once more.

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When she's reasonably sure Lincoln won't follow her, she slows her pace to walk aimlessly down the busy streets until the sun finally starts its descent and she feels every uncovered inch of her skin burn sharply, as if her nerves are coming back to life. She bitterly chuckles to herself as she thinks that the next time she'll run away to Panama to murder someone, she'll have to remember to apply some suntan.

Sara feels lost in every possible way as she counts her options, or lack thereof. She can't go back to the boat, she won't fly back to the States and there is no one waiting for her anywhere. Her feet are killing her and she curses both her fair complexion and the Panamean sun. What she needs most urgently is a place to sleep, and to indulge her misery with a much overdue liquor binge.

She follows the animated sounds of the city until she stops in front of a decent-looking hotel, which, the sign tells her, welcomes English-speaking foreigners as much as dollar bills. The hotel's bar is crowded with business men chatting the late afternoon away and the heavy mix of voices and laughter only makes her loneliness sting more acutely.

She straddles a high stool and asks for a double scotch, because she's way past acting like a lady. She's also past the point where sobriety is even an option. She wants to drown in liquor and forget all about Michael's taut forearm pressing on her throat, about Lincoln's sad glare, about Paul Kellerman's dignified farewells and everything that led her to the disaster she's tangled in.

The barman stares at her oddly as he grabs crumpled bills she threw in front of her. She notices then that she's the only woman besides the waitresses, and half the customers are staring at her as if she was an exotic curiosity. Or, more probably, a newly arrived, dramatically sunburnt hooker.

Intent on being left alone, she firmly plants her eyes on the wall of bottles across the bar and downs her shot in a few gulps, revelling in the unforgettable bitter sweetness of whiskey. She feels it flowing in her veins in hot waves, radiating in her limbs and numbing her aching body. With a nod, she orders another one.

She's just finished her third glass when a tall man in a dark suit sits next to her and asks the barman for two of what she's having.

"You look like you could do with another drink."

"Another one, and a few after that," she replies, shooting a glance at the stranger. He sounds American and wears a jacket despite the suffocating warmth. Her jaw tightens and she leans further away from him.

"A woman like you, in a bar like this, you never know what could happen."

Sara meets his eyes as she replies coolly, "Look, I had a bad day, so let's skip the niceties, okay? What are you, FBI? Company?"

He chuckles and gives her a mischievous smirk, the same irritating, humourless grin Kellerman and the man she shot used to sport. A dangerous smile meant to warn her, to let her know she had no control over what was happening.

"Oh, Miss Tancredi, I would have thought by now, you'd have understood it's all one and the same."

She nods, surprised at her own detachment. "Are you going to kill me?"

"That depends," he replies conversationally, his grin not quite reaching his eyes.

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The most striking thing about Sona is the darkness. He's certain the middle of the brightest day would look like a moonless night in this place. And then there's the stench. It reeks of blood, sweat and something else, something animalistic he can't quite place but that makes him want to gag. As he walks down the corridor, he feels a dozen pairs of eyes pointed at him, evaluating his strengths, his resistance. The guard nods in direction of a cell and he steps in only to sit in a corner, his jaw clenched, trying to conjure a look of quiet defiance.

He hears the screams of inmates being beaten down into submission, raped, maybe tortured as the guards look the other way. His old life, his other life has never felt so far.

The incessant yells of pain would be enough to drive the most balanced man crazy. When he was locked up in Fox River, he never imagined it would one day seem like a paradise lost. The thought is so incongruous it makes him smile to himself. Back then, the threats were easy to identify; it was only a matter of learning how to defuse them. Here, the enemy is everywhere, everyone.

He never thought he'd lose his life in Fox River, never allowed himself to consider he could not walk out safe and sound with his brother by his side. This place is something else entirely. He could die here. He might die here.

All night long, as he tries to shut himself from the deafening cries of pain, he thinks about Lincoln and Sara. He hopes they made it, that they are free. That they'll get the happily-ever-after he had to pass up.

He has lost all sense of purpose. All he feels is exhaustion and weariness.

There's only one thought on his mind: _How are you supposed to fight for your life when you feel like you've already given it up?_

--------------_  
_

"I don't know where Michael or Lincoln are," she tells the agent before finishing her glass in one gulp, half hoping he'll just put a bullet to her head without further ado and get it over with.

"Well, I do. That's not what we need from you."

"I don't have anything that you need."

"You're wrong, _Sara_, you have precisely what we're after. And you're going to do exactly what you're told. If you don't, I'm afraid your safety isn't ensured."

"Humour me," she spits with a defiant look before gesturing for the barman to bring another scotch.

"I'm going to arrange for you to visit Michael Scofield, and you're going to coax him into escaping. To help him any way you can."

"You want him to _escape_?" She chuckles at the sheer ridiculousness of the suggestion.

"Yes, we do. But we worry that Mr. Scofield might have lost his stamina, so to speak. It is essential to ensure he will plan another escape. We need you to help him regain his determination. Give him something to hope for. The will to fight and, eventually, to break free."

"You're one inconsistent bunch, you know that?"

"We are everything but that," he shoots with a predatory smile.

"How could you possibly want him to escape? Didn't you waste enough energy over him already?"

"I can't give you that information."

"Is there any information you _can_ give me?" she asks, amusement tainting her now evidently intoxicated voice.

"I can tell you where Michael Scofield is."

"_Because_… you want me to visit him."

"That's right."

"Do you have any idea how funny that is? Look, Mister… What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. And unfortunately, the mess the three of you got yourself into fails to amuse us, Sara. Do we have a deal?"

"Okay, let me make this clear. You want me to visit Michael in whatever facility he's being held in the sole purpose of getting him to escape?"

"I knew you were a smart girl. You used to be a doctor, didn't you?"

"That was a long time ago."

"You will find time is a relative notion, especially here."

"You don't say. What's in it for me?"

"Your life, and his. Here's your key. There's a room upstairs booked in your name. You'll find everything you need for your… mission," he adds as his smirk grows larger.

The rational side of her tells her to run for her life and pray there's not another one at the door. If she agrees to give in once more to something that overpowers her completely, she'll only dig herself deeper in. But the voice of her conscience sounds weak and distant; her mind is sufficiently clouded by the liquor to allow her to shut it out completely. After all, it's not like she has another plan or is given a choice in the matter.

She gracelessly lets herself slip from the stool and grabs the key from the man's hand as she mumbles, "I hope you threw in some sunscreen."

He watches her stumble away as he dials a number on his cell. "She's in," he says, before slapping it shut.

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	2. Chapter 2

Sara wakes up with a start in an unfamiliar bed to the irritating sound of a ringing phone. Her hands search idly for a light and as she sits up to take in her surroundings, a blinding headache hits her temples. Her body feels sticky with sweat and dirt and the room is uncomfortably hot, despite the pouring rain tapping angrily against the window.

She grabs the phone and barks, "What?" before wincing at the pain the vibrations of her own voice triggers in her heavy head.

"There's Tylenol in the nightstand's drawer, if you need any."

Her new Company friend sounds very amused. She hears him chuckling as she sends the small lamp flying to the ground while carelessly reaching for the medicine.

"Get ready, Sara. I'll be waiting for you at the hotel's entrance in an hour. I suggest you take a shower and put on some clean clothes. And look at the file I left for you."

She hears a click followed by a disconnected ring tone before she has time to tell him to go to hell.

She swallows a few pills and a copious amount of water to soothe her dry mouth before heading for the bathroom. Showering would probably make her feel better if the hot water didn't bite so viciously at her sunburnt skin. She hisses and swears as she washes away the previous day.

She is indeed refreshed, although still hung over, when she exits the shower and notices a set of clean clothes on a hanger by the door. Putting them on without hurting either her head or skin proves difficult as she has to keep her movements to a bare minimum.

Back in her hotel bedroom, Sara sits on the bed for a while, waiting for the pills to kick in and trying to make sense of what is happening to her yet again. She has a Kellerman clone on her back, her head is killing her and Michael is back in jail. Things are looking up indeed.

She finds the file on the small desk facing the bed and sits back to skim through it rapidly before the phone rings again.

"It's time."

"What…" Before she can finish, the line is beeping idly again.

----------------------------

"I need to find my brother," he all but shouts the second the call is picked up.

"Lincoln.?"

"Yeah, hi. Look, my brother is missing, I think he's in jail but I don't…"

"Hold on, will you? We're on it," Jane cuts him, her matter-of-fact voice only adding to his recklessness.

"What? You know where he is?" he yells, his fury taking over.

"Yes, I've been trying to reach you but your phone won't pick up."

"Yeah, I lost it. Where is he?"

"Sona. It's a federal penitentiary. He's in it deep."

"No kidding."

"I don't mean with just the police."

"I figured as much."

"You need to find Sara."

"Sara?" His head hits the phone booth before he confesses between clenched teeth, "I lost her last night. She wouldn't go with me. What does she…"

"You need to find her. Find her before they do. And keep me posted."

"Okay. Wait, is everything okay on your end?"

"LJ's fine. Go and get her. Now."

He curses as he slams back the receiver, before snapping at no one in particular, "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

----------------------------

"You have the rudest phone manners, you know that, right?"

"Did you have time to read the file?"

"Some of it. You don't expect me to tattoo all that over my body, do you?"

He laughs good-naturedly at her question and shakes his head. "Not if you do your homework. You'll need to memorize it, give him hints, point him in the right direction. Get in," he adds before opening the car's door for her.

He starts the engine and she stares idly by the window, reacquainting herself with the city, amazed at how different it looks after the rain. More familiar.

"Start reading," he orders before greeting her with his trademark's smirk.

"Reading in cars makes me sick," she replies coolly, mimicking his obnoxious grin. She's terribly annoyed to be the source of his apparent amusement, and he reminds her more of Kellerman by the minute. She wishes she could erase that smirk with a well adjusted punch to his jaw but is only too aware that she would be facing the wrong side of a gun seconds later. Besides, she fights like a girl.

"Just tell me when I need to stop the car, then," he replies, completely un-phased.

"Look, do you have a name? I'm uncomfortable hating people without knowing how they're called."

"Agent Richard Johnson, if you must know. Do you need a business card, or will that be all?"

"Well, Richard –mind if I call you Dick?"

"Yes, I do. Agent Johnson will do just fine."

"Okay, _Dick_," she continues, obviously pleased, "just know that I have no problem whatsoever with ruining your car's carpet."

"As you wish, I only thought you wouldn't want to visit your boyfriend while smelling like puke."

"Fine! Bastard," she adds under her breath before opening the file and resuming her reading, ignoring Agent Johnson's barely repressed laughter.

----------------------------

When he parks in front of the Penitenciaría Federal de Sona, it's not raining anymore and the high sun is reflecting blindingly on the wet pavement. Her head feels better although she still feels like she hasn't drunk a drop of water in days.

Richard, or "Dick" as she has taken on calling him, satisfied to finally find a way to bother him, opens the car door for her and puts a hand on the small of her back to lead her to the front entrance. She tries to brush him off, but as he's persistent as he's aggravating and she suspects he does it only to exasperate her.

Once inside the Panamanian prison hall, feeling awkward and completely out of place, Sara had never wished more that she had actually paid attention in her high school Spanish classes.

Dick, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, joking amicably with the locals before slipping them discretely a few folded bills, reflecting their beaming smiles.

"I'll be waiting by the car. Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but were you stupid enough to mention our conversations to Scofield, you'd be facing a lot worse than a nasty headache. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal, Dick," she breathes without looking at him, now entirely focused on the guard gesturing for her to follow. She needs to get ready to walk to Michael and lie to his face.

----------------------------

He's almost surprised to have survived his first night without a scratch. He hasn't had a second of sleep, unable as he was to stay oblivious to the thick chaos surrounding him. The morning feels heavy and the air is so thick his clothes are clinging uncomfortably to his body. He doesn't join the inmates wandering in the hallways, in fact, he hasn't moved from the spot he sat on last night. His mind is racing, trying to make some sense out of it all.

"Hey, Americano!" he hears a guard yell, and first thinks they must be addressing someone else. Probably Mahone, his Company pals are bound to work their magic to get him out of here, at least to place a neat, shiny bullet in his skull.

When the man shows up at the open door of his cell and motions for him to follow, he finally rises up and reluctantly steps out to walk down the hallway, trying to avoid looking at the display of pure misery he passes. Junkies collapsed on the ground, men looking at him as if he was a slice of fine bread after months of famine, and isn't that Bellick holding his broken jaw as he sits by a huge, intimidating prisoner?

"Visitor!" the guard announces as he leads him to a remote area of the prison. He can't help noticing the architecture, tracing maps in his head, trying to locate every possible exit. It has become a second nature.

----------------------------

A middle-aged woman in a uniform searches her before letting her in a small, surprisingly dark room, empty but for a table and two chairs. The tiny window loos out onto a deserted courtyard. She tries to imagine Michael walking around it, a prisoner again, helpless and without her to patch him up at the end of the day. This escape business sounds better to her by the minute.

But when he enters the room and plants his eyes in hers, she has to look away. Maybe it's the _dejà-vu_, maybe it's the prospect of lying to him when she wants nothing but to drag him out with her and walk into the sunset for real. Or maybe it's the knowledge that he's here for what she's done. For killing a man. She murdered a man because of Michael, hell, she might have killed two if no one had stopped her, and nothing will ever be the same.

----------------------------

"What are you doing here, Sara?"

"Uh, visiting you?"

"I can see that. Why?" he insists, watching her face intently, trying to read what she won't say with words. Something is off, he felt it instantly when he walked in and she averted her eyes when they met his.

"What do you mean, why? We are… Look, I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm as good as can be. Where is Lincoln?"

"I don't know. We split last night."

"What? Why? You can't stay on your own."

"Of course I can." She looks distant, unreachable. They're not connecting, they're barely even communicating. There's a wall behind her eyes and his gut instinct tells him something very wrong is going on, what? She obviously won't say. That doesn't mean he can't try.

"Sara, what is it?" he asks softly, letting his hand move to caress the tip of her fingers.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies absently before looking away again to watch a procession of black bugs making their way to a small hole by the opposite wall. How can he stand to even breathe in this place?

"Right. You won't look at me because you'd rather stare at the cockroaches?"

His words make her jolt ant she meets his eyes this time as she murmurs, "You can't stay here, Michael."

"Yeah, well, since I'm not up for another grandiose escape…"

Her heart races and her eyes lights up. She tries to convey everything she can't say with a look. "What if you were?"

"What if I were?" he repeats, incredulous. "Have you lost your mind?"

"You escaped Fox River," she whispers excitedly, "a modern, high security prison. This place has nothing on it. I'm sure you could pull it off. There has to be a way."

"I planned the Fox River break out for months. I tattooed the blueprints all over myself. I studied them until I was on the brink of insanity. That's how I got away. I'm no Houdini, there is no way I could repeat that little trick."

"What if I helped you from the outside?" she says before biting her lips, shamed at her own suggestion.

"No. No way. I'm not putting you in any more danger."

She forces herself to look down, terrified that her eyes might betray her. He always seems to read her like an open book, although she now knows most of his clever deductions were only educated guesses, the result of a long and methodical work or research. She has almost forgiven him for that.

"Are you… Something happened, didn't it? They got to you?" he asks, raising his voice as panic sets on his face.

"I don't know what…" When their eyes meet again, she knows the battle is lost. His eyes are frantically studying her, trying to tell her apart, before his jaw clenches so hard his lips looks like a fine line.

"Who?" he breathes dangerously.

"Michael…"

"They asked you to help me escape, didn't they?"

"I… I have all the information you'd need."

"To break out," he supplies. When she doesn't answer, he asks, "You weren't going to tell me." It's a statement, not a question, and there is no mistaking the sadness in his voice.

"He said if I… Well, I'm sure you can guess the rest." He nods in response and can't help feeling hurt; all the while knowing she had no choice. Still, he had hoped they were past lies and secrets.

"Can you gain some time?"

"I think so," she breathes, looking at him desperately, trying to read his now expressionless face. "Michael, are we okay? I meant what I said, you know. Before." She pauses before adding reluctantly, "I love you." Saying these words in this place seems to alter them somehow, and she almost resents herself for spoiling them.

But the look he gives her then alleviates her fears. His gaze is so intense she feels it slowly melting her body from head to toe, and when he whispers her name and repeats the same three words, three little words she never knew could move and shatter her that much; she knows she'll find a way to work things out. Apparently, there's not much she wouldn't do for Michael Scofield.

They brush fingers again lightly and this time, their smiles are genuine.

----------------------------

"How did it go?"

"Fine. Just fine. Let's drive back, okay? I need a nap."

"You realise you'll have to tell me everything in detail, don't you?"

"Right. I'm a regular Mata-Hari."

"Well then, get ready to dance."

"Oh, you're a witty one, alright."

When she's comfortably sprawled on the passenger seat, she whispers "Night, Dick," and instantly falls asleep, relieved to postpone the inevitable confrontation.

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	3. Chapter 3

As he walks back to his cell, he tries to rewrite history once more. To revise the original plan in a way that would not have needed Sara's implication in any way. He indulges in self-deprecation and berates himself over and over again. If he hadn't been such a selfish fool, he would have pushed her away and it would have been over for her days ago, the minute Kellerman got her cleared of all charges. Incidentally, the fact that _Kellerman_ was the first to do anything truly selfless for her since they got involved in the conspiracy upsets him quite a lot.

He gave up on his freedom to get her out of harm's way and only managed to hand her over to the Company. It never ends, it only goes further down.

The walk down the same corridor he walked through when he first arrived in Sona is his idea of hell. The inmates are roaming freely out of their cells and the air is charged with moist heat and a dangerous level of testosterone. As he walks by, the prisoners interrupt their conversations to stare. Dozens of pairs of eyes are scrutinizing him, each wanting something from him. He doesn't feel like he has much to give.

He spots Bellick sitting alone in a corner and gives him a little not. The former C.O.'s eyes look glazed and empty, absent. He doesn't move or look up, shows no sign of recognition.

Michael walks back in his cell wanting nothing but to be left alone to think about Sara and how to get her out of this mess, but is interrupted by a light cough. He raises his eyes to find Mahone leaning against the wall, waiting.

"Not now. Whatever it is you want, just- not now."

"There'll be time for brooding later. If we're still alive, that is. We need to think something up, Scofield. I'm not willing to find out the hard way how long I can hold on in this hellhole."

"You figured out all my tricks, didn't you? I'm sure you can think something up on your own."

"Second-guessing will get me nowhere. You're the escape mastermind, not me. "

At that, Michael shook his head and chuckled humourlessly. "Not that anyone will let me forget."

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Sara wakes up in an unfamiliar bed once more and struggles to remember where she is and what has happened. She's in a hotel room that could do with a proper air-conditioning, still recovering from a hangover, and that's about all she can make out of it at first glance. She's grateful for the bottle of water she finds on her nightstand and sits up to have a gulp when her heart makes a start.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she barks at the man in a dark suit sprawled on a chair facing her bed.

"Waiting to have a little chat with you, sleepy head."

His amused voice is enough to bring back all her missing memories from the day before and the past few hours. As she takes them all in, she immediately starts missing the blissful blur. Amnesia has never sounded so good.

"How did I even get here?"

"You're pretty light for a woman who likes Scotch the way you do."

"You carried me here? And you've been watching me sleep? God, you're a freak."

"Don't you forget who's the cat and who's the mouse in this particular story, Sara," he reminds her with a lazy grin. "I'll give you a hint: I'm the one with the big gun."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snorts as she pushes away the covers after checking covertly that she is, indeed, fully dressed.

"I need to freshen up," she announces as she gets to her feet, without sparing him another look.

"You can't postpone this forever, you know."

"It's hot in here and I had too much to drink last night. I don't play well with others when I'm sticky and dehydrated-"

"Do you ever?"

"Oh, Dick, I can be the most accommodating woman in the world," she assures him with a glare that says quite the opposite.

"Suit yourself. For your information, we're on the fourth floor. No sneaking out through the window for you."

"You're underestimating me. I'm acquainted with grand escapes through the aeration duct, you know," she informs him before sticking her tongue out and slamming the bathroom door behind her.

The door closes a moment too late to deafen his voice as he shouts back, "As you are with the kind of freshening up we reserve to reluctant informers!"

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"This isn't working!"

"Hello, Lincoln," Jane greeted him, unfazed by the exasperation dripping from his voice.

"Look, I'm no P.I., okay? I don't know where to go or what to ask. I haven't even spoken Spanish since I left high-school, and that was in the eighties, for Christ's sake. If you really want to find Sara, you'll have to give me something to work with."

"I will."

"Could you be any more cryptic? Cause I really love that about you. Oh, wait…"

"Sarcasm isn't really you're strong suit, you know. I booked a room for you," she offered, annoyance peaking through her apparently calm voice.

"Thanks. I'm too old for sleeping on the beach."

"I gathered as much."

"Are you mocking me or commiserating?"

"Is that really what you want to discuss?"

"Look, do you have connection around here? Someone I could contact, or…"

"I'll be there by tomorrow."

Lincoln let out a long, relieved sigh. "Took you long enough."

"I'm sorry I wasted so much time making arrangements to insure your son's safety."

"Uh, okay. Thank you. When will you..."

"Come pick me up at the airport at 9pm."

"Will do," he replied, before cursing the disconnected ring tone.

-------------

When she exited the bathroom, Richard motioned for her to sit on the chair he had set opposite him. He looked agreeable as ever, if not for his feet nervously tapping the floor.

"Let's get it over with," he asked as she sat down. "How did it go?"

"Alright."

"You're going to have to give me a little more than that."

"Then you might want to phrase your questions better."

"Was the word 'escape' ever mentioned?"

"Yes."

"By?" he sighed impatiently.

"I told him he needed to get out of there quick and he asked if I expected him to break out. He said it as a joke, I think, but I told him it was an option he might not want to overlook."

"And his reaction was…"

"Astonishment, I guess. He wouldn't expect me to support the idea."

"Did you tell him you were willing to help from the outside?"

"I may have said something to that effect," she answered, deciding that staying evasive was decidedly the key.

"Look, if you're going to be bad sport, I'm wiring you up next time. No more private lovey-dovey time with your boyfriend, Doc."

"Because nothing says romance like a South-American jail parlour infested with cockroaches the size of my thumb," she barked, affronted.

The agent held up a peaceful hand that meant to soothe her but only irritated her some more.

"I'm sorry but that is not my first preoccupation at the moment."

"How do you even expect to get me in all wired up? I get searched."

"I have my ways."

"Ways that look a lot like President Franklin, I take it."

"One of the first things you learn in this field is that anyone can be bought, usually for less than you would expect."

"Then why don't you buy his way out of jail?"

"Because our state of affairs might be slightly more complicated that I let you in on."

"Meaning?"

"What makes you think I'd be willing to share now?"

"Because I'm part of the plan," Sara reminded him with the patient tone she would use with a temperamental child.

"No. You're an accessory to the plan. Hear the nuance?"

"What I don't get, is why you would need to rely on someone who's most definitely not willing to help you and could betray you at any given moment."

"Because you know from memory that our threats are not empty."

"You want him to sneak something out with him, don't you? Something… or someone?" she whispered as realisation downed on her.

"Do you really expect me to answer your ludicrous questions?"

"Well, we could play cold, tepid and hot," she offered with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Now, now, back to the matter at hand, Sara," he tapped his knee impatiently, mirroring her obnoxious grin.

"Fine. Look, all I can say is that, I've seen the place he's in. I've seen the way he looks. He got out of For River missing two toes, with a nasty burn to the shoulder, after spending a few days in the psych ward. I suspect this… place isn't the safest playground for a handsome American with no connections and few bargain tokens. I won't let him die in jail, not after letting him admit to a crime he didn't commit-"

"There were other crimes…"

"Shut up! Shut up, I don't want to hear it!" she yelled, effectively silencing him. "_I_ want him out. Alive, with his eight remaining toes and all ten fingers. I want him out no more damaged than he already it. By any means necessary. So, I'll help. But not for you or your threats, Dick, be sure of that. I'm not scared of you. You're not all that impressive. "

"That's the spirit," he grinned, ignoring her last remarks. "Tell me one thing, Sara. Does he suspect that the idea may have been slipped to you? That you've made new friends here in Panama?"

"I don't think so. We never really got to that. We were too busy acting lovey-dovey," she snorted, her eyes dark with anger and despise for the man facing her.

"I'll let you in on one little secret, Sara," he leaned over conspiratorially. "If you don't stop being such a sore loser, you're going to die. If you try to outsmart me, you're going to die. If you tell Scofield any more than I allow you to tell him, you're…"

"God, you're a broken record. Okay, I get it! If I don't play by the rules, I die. Whatever. Can we move on?"

"One more question. Did he tell you about any other inmates?"

"No. Look, I don't care how foreign and unconceivable it sounds to you, but we were mostly concerned about each other's wellbeing and safety. That's what people think about when they care for each other."

"You're going back next Thursday. By then, I expect you to have some Intel memorised and to get a move on with the plan."

"Just what I needed, another compulsive planner," she muttered, as her stomach let out an angry rumbling.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving," she nodded.

"I'll get some room service."

"I'm more of a four to five stars restaurant type of girl."

"Or, I'll let you starve until you revise your standards."

"Fine," she sighed as she reluctantly grabbed the menu he was holding out to her. "But just so you know, I'm having whatever's the most expensive."

-------------


End file.
